All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Right, yes: so my charity single idea. I was thinking we could—’

  A dull thunk reverberated around the inside of his skull and the room rushed at him like the incoming tide. Ringing in his … Knees buckle, not straight … Floor rushing up to meet him.

  Darkness.

  33

  Sylvia frowned at the phone, sitting in its cradle on the kitchen countertop – hands-free, so she could enjoy a nice large Pinot Grigio and a dish of Kalamata olives. ‘Scotty?’

  A thunk from the phone’s speaker, then a groan.

  She rolled her eyes and popped another olive.

  Honestly, why did male clients have to be such a pain in the proverbial? I want more exposure! I want on BBC Breakfast! I want on the One Show – though why anyone would want that was absolutely beyond her – Bake Off, Strictly, MasterChef, I’m a Celebrity, Saturday Kitchen, wah, wah, wah, why aren’t I more popular?

  But when you’ve recently bought a two-bedroom flat in Kensington, you do what you have to in order to pay for it. Even if it meant polishing the egos of whiny wannabes like Scott Meyrick.

  Sylvia took a sip of Pinot and frowned at the phone as scuffing and grunting came from the other end. He better not be having a phonewank at her …

  ‘Hello? Scotty?’

  Some muffled rustling noises, then another groan.

  Swear to God, if it wasn’t for her staggeringly huge mortgage she’d dump his whiny Z-list arse in a shot.

  ‘Very funny, Scotty. Now, can we get on with business?’

  Then a woman’s voice, hard and Scottish: ‘Grab his legs.’

  Sylvia sat up, put the wine glass down and turned the volume up. Pressed the ‘RECORD CALL’ button. ‘Scotty? Is everything OK?’

  ‘Right, you little bastard.’

  A … what was that? It was too muffled to make out. She grabbed the phone, pressing it against her ear.

  The next voice was a man’s, a thicker, coarser version of Scotty’s accent. ‘He’s coming round.’

  There were people in her client’s house.

  Oh – my – God …

  And she was getting it all on tape.

  ‘SCOTTY!’

  ‘You hear that? It was a … There: in his shirt pocket?’ The man’s voice got louder. ‘Oh shite, he’s on the phone with someone!’

  ‘So what? Let them listen. All publicity’s good publicity, right?’

  ‘LEAVE MY CLIENT ALONE!’

  Laughter.

  Then moaning. A confused, ‘Wmnnnnghh … I …’ Scotty’s mumbling snapped straight to pure terror. ‘Who the—’ whatever he said next was muddy and indistinct, as if someone slapped their hand over his mouth.

  The Woman: ‘So Scotland’s a “half-arsed nation of chippy wee wannabees”, is it?’

  A metallic sound. Followed by muffled pleas.

  The Man: ‘Spite’s a terrible thing, Scotty. Real terrible.’

  The Woman: ‘Hold him still.’

  A scream belted out of the speaker, high-pitched and terrified and wine-curdling. Sylvia wrenched the phone away from her ear, knocking over her glass. It shattered against the worktop, Pinot Grigio going everywhere as the screaming went on and on and on and on …

  She dug her other iPhone from her handbag and dialled 999.

  Come on, come on, come—

  ‘Emergency services, which service do you require?’

  ‘Police! Get the police out there now!’

  Mhari pulls down her facemask and grins at him.

  Haiden checks his own white oversuit – speckled with tiny red dots, but hers is caked, bright scarlet all the way from her gloves to her elbows. More on her chest.

  His stomach does a wee spin to the left, then the right, but he swallows it down.

  Jesus …

  She snatches a fancy-looking bottle from the kitchen countertop, twists off the top with her bloody gloves, raises the brandy in salute. ‘Slàinte mhath!’ Then swigs straight from the bottle. Holds it out to him.

  Yeah, maybe not.

  ‘He got any whisky?’

  She jerks her head towards the open kitchen door, where the lower half of Scotty Meyrick is slowly inching past, legs barely moving as he tries to crawl away. Not getting very far. Leaving a thick smear of scarlet on the marble floor. ‘He’s a Unionist wanker, course he hasn’t.’

  Mhari wiggles the bottle at Haiden and he shrugs, then takes it. Lowers his mask.

  ‘Slàinte mhòr.’ He takes a big scoof of brandy. Shudders as the sweet grapey liquid hits the back of his throat. Forces it down. ‘Gah …’

  Mhari puts her bloodstained hand on his white-suited chest. ‘Oh, baby, we’re nearly done. We’re so close.’ Then she steps in close and kisses him, her breath like petrol from the brandy. ‘Soon we can do anything we like.’

  Now that’s more like it. He smiles, slow and sexy. ‘Anything?’

  She laughs, then grabs him and kisses him again – deeply this time, with lots and lots of tongue. Breaks for air and stares through the open door at Scotty Meyrick’s half-arsed escape crawl. ‘But first we have to take care of our new friend, before the cops get here.’

  34

  Two patrol cars sat on the wide gravel drive, blocking in a fancy BMW Roadster. The one nearest the massive, garish, house still had its blue-and-whites on, the flickering disco of misery reflecting back from the wall of glass that fronted the property.

  The sign by the gates was a slab of granite with ‘CAIRNHARN COTTAGE’ on it, which was a bit of an understatement. Scotty Meyrick’s house was huge. One of those places that got featured in property supplements as ‘HOME OF THE WEEK!’ – had to be at least five bedrooms in there; landscaped gardens; the edge of a tennis court poking out behind one corner of the house.

  Logan pulled his Audi into the only gap left and climbed out.

  Not often you got to describe a night in Aberdeenshire as ‘sultry’, but this probably qualified. The air, thick and sticky. Smelling of dust and something … chemical. Like the warm verruca-plaster scent of chlorine. Which probably meant there was a pool as well.

  A pair of security lights cracked on as he crunched his way to the house, flooding the gravel with their harsh white glare.

  Logan stopped outside the front door, pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, and let himself in.

  Big porch, a line of jackets on a row of hooks. Large mirror on the wall opposite, because God forbid you should step out of your front door looking anything less than your fabulous best.

  The porch opened on a massive hall, more like a hotel lobby than someone’s house. The marble floor was speckled with dark red, a pool of it in the middle of the room. Bloody handprints. Bloody footprints. Not as much as there’d been in Professor Wilson’s kitchen, but still …

  Whatever Mhari and Haiden had done to Scotty Meyrick wasn’t good.

  A thick streak of scarlet stretched away towards the cavernous living room, as if their victim had tried to escape, but barely made it to the open doors.

  A lone PC stood with her back to the room, all done up in the full stabproof-and-high-viz kit, talking into her phone. ‘No, there’s no sign of the householder. Dundee Bill and Smithy are out searching … Uh-huh … OK.’ She groaned and sagged. ‘Inspector McRae? Why do we need some Professional Standards toss—’

  Logan cleared his throat. Nice and loud before she could hang herself.

  She froze. ‘Oh God, he’s behind me, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is. And since we’ve got off to such a great start, perhaps you can tell me why there’s no one out there stopping every Thomas, Richard, and Harold barging into our crime scene?’

  ‘Got to go.’ She hung up and turned, pulling on what was probably meant to be an ingratiating smile. It didn’t go with her wide turnip face. ‘Inspector McRae! Great to see you up and about again. You know, after what happened last year.’

  ‘I want this scene secured, Constable.’

  ‘Ah … Well, the thing is, we don’t even know if it’
s a proper crime scene yet, because—’

  ‘Scott Meyrick, who’s been quite clear about his anti-independence stance, was abducted while on the phone to his agent.’ Logan counted the points off on his fingers: ‘She heard screaming, the floor’s covered in blood, and, let me guess, he’s nowhere to be found?’

  Pink rushed up Constable Turnip’s cheeks. ‘Yes.’ The pink darkened. ‘I mean, yes, sir. Boss. Guv?’

  ‘Good. Now we’ve got that cleared up, get this sodding crime scene secured!’

  She scurried off towards the front door, phone clamped to her ear again. ‘Guthrie, whatever you’re doing, stop it and get back here. Nosferatu’s Ninjas have arrived …’ Banging the door behind her as she vanished into the porch.

  Unbelievable.

  OK, so giving her a hard time wouldn’t exactly help to dispel Professional Standards’ reputation as ‘a bunch of sinister bastards’, but if you presented your backside for kicking you couldn’t complain when someone took a run up and planted their boot square between your cheeks.

  And where the hell was the cordon? The bloodstains on the floor should’ve been taped off by now. Sodding amateurs.

  He squatted down a couple of inches past where the splatter ended. A lot of blood, but not a life-threatening amount. Well, at least not bleeding-to-death threatening.

  Maybe Haiden and Mhari had planned something more, but had to cut it short? After all, according to Scotty Meyrick’s agent the two of them knew she was on the phone, listening as they did whatever it was they were doing to him. Knew she’d phone the police. Knew that patrol cars would be racing over here, lights and sirens blaring. Knew their time was running out …

  Logan stood and followed the blood smear to the lounge door.

  This room was massive too: the front wall, solid glass, looking out at the patrol car and its flashing blue-and-whites. A big sound system against one wall, a collection of tan leather couches, a big glass-and-chrome coffee table, far more pictures of the house’s owner than was healthy – even for a committed egomaniac.

  ‘Ostentatious’ was the word that sprung to mind.

  The only things spoiling Scotty Meyrick’s nouveau-riche narcissistic look-at-me-I’m-famous theme were the St Andrew’s cross spray-painted across a large projection screen in dripping blue aerosol and the word ‘SPITE!’ graffitied on the opposite wall, taking in several of the ego-photos.

  They knew the police were on their way, but they still hung around to do that …

  Foolhardy, reckless, or maybe they just didn’t give a toss any more? Not now Hardie had outed them to the whole world. And there was no way that didn’t make them a lot more dangerous.

  Hardie was such a stupid—

  ‘For God’s sake!’ DI King’s Highland accent boomed out in the hall. ‘Get out my bloody way!’

  ‘Please, Guv: I’ve got to do crime scene management or Inspector McRae will have my ovaries.’

  See? Applying boot to backside had the desired effect.

  ‘Oh for …’

  There was a pause – presumably that would be PC Turnip making King sign in – then the man himself lurched into view. He wasn’t his usual dapper, if slightly sweaty self. A bit rumpled, to be honest.

  King stopped in the doorway to the living room, rubbing a hand across his blue-stubbled jaw as he frowned down at the blood smear. His suit looked as if he’d slept in it, purple bags under his pink eyes. He stuffed a mint into his mouth, crunching it down with a grimace. ‘Got here as soon as I could.’

  A waft of aftershave made it across the room to where Logan stood. Sharp and overpowering.

  Logan backed away a couple of paces, but it followed him. ‘Scott Meyrick. That’s three Anti-Nat, Pro-Union figures missing in eight days. I think Haiden and Mhari are escalating.’

  King rubbed at his stubble again. ‘We’re going to have to wait at least two hours for a Scene Examination team. Had to draft one up from Tayside, because all ours are out at another sodding arson attack.’

  ‘Thought we had top priority? They told us we had top priority!’

  ‘A man died, Logan. Burned to death in the flat above his pub.’

  ‘Bloody hell …’ No wonder they couldn’t get anyone out here.

  ‘Yup.’ King puffed out his cheeks and took another look at the smeared blood. ‘Think Scott Meyrick’s hands are going to turn up in the post? Or his cock?’ King gave a small lurch to the side. He caught it fast enough, but it was still visible. ‘Or Christ-knows what.’

  Maybe that explained all the aftershave?

  Logan stepped in closer and sniffed. There was something underneath it. Something sour, lurking between all those extra-strong mints. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  Those pink eyes narrowed. ‘I had one. One drink, with my wife, over dinner.’

  One drink? With the wife that completely hated him? Yeah, that sounded plausible.

  King stuck out his chest. ‘What?’ Then he shook his head and marched into the room, pretty much collapsed into one of the leather couches. Scowled up at the vandalised projection screen. ‘We’ve got two options. One: Haiden and Mhari are abducting their victims, mutilating, killing them, and dumping the bodies. Two: they’re actually trying to keep them alive for some reason.’ The words were slow and crisp, as if he was forcing the slush out of them first. But not quite managing.

  One bottle, more like.

  ‘They sent us a video of Professor Wilson pleading for his life in a chest freezer, remember?’ Logan sighed. ‘This is probably the most high-profile case you’ll ever work on, Frank. The media are picking over every single thing we do and so are our bosses. You can’t turn up for work with a drink in you. Not now, not ever.’

  ‘Oh come on! How was I supposed to know I’d get dragged out here at …’ he peeled back his sleeve and peered at his watch with one eye – the other squeezed shut, ‘eleven o’clock?’

  ‘Suppose not.’ But that didn’t make it right.

  King gave himself a bit of a shake. ‘So where are they keeping them? Where do Mhari Powell and Haiden Lochhead have access to?’

  Oh for God’s sake.

  ‘We’re looking into that, already, remember?’

  ‘Urgh …’ He scrubbed at his face again.

  Maybe more than one bottle. And probably something a lot stronger than wine.

  ‘Go home, Frank, you’re not helping the case or yourself by being here.’

  King wouldn’t look at him. ‘Robert Drysdale.’

  ‘What about him?’

  A long pause while King pursed his lips and frowned, as if he was working up to some big secret. ‘He’s … Yeah.’ Whatever it was, the moment passed. ‘Don’t suppose it matters now.’ King sagged back and stared at the ceiling. ‘You ever think about jacking it all in, Logan? About marching up to Hardie, Young, and all the rest of those useless tossers and telling them where they can stick this buggering job?’

  All the time. Especially today.

  Logan hooked a thumb at the patrol cars outside. ‘Come on: go home. I’ll get someone to drive you.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter what I do, I’m screwed. Can’t erase the sins of the past.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘They’re going to tear me apart, Logan. They’re going to crack open my bones and feast on the bloody marrow.’

  Probably.

  ‘We’re doing everything we can.’

  ‘I was doomed from the moment I decided Cerys was the one for me. My first real love … Sixteen years old and that was my life. Ruined.’

  Logan helped him up. Close in, like this, the smell of alcohol was eye-watering. ‘It’ll look better in the morning.’

  ‘No. No, it really won’t.’

  Logan sat back on the sofa and stifled a yawn.

  Tayside’s Scene Examination team had cordoned off the blood spatters in the hallway, and now half a dozen of them were giving the crime scene laldy, all dressed in their scrunchy white SOC suits. Fingerprinting, swabbing, and photographing things.
>
  For some reason, their Transit van – parked right outside the living room window – wasn’t the usual filthy grey with obscene slogans written in the dirt. Instead it was a pristine shade of recently cleaned white. They’d have to watch that, if any of the other divisional SE teams found out, they’d get drummed out of the Scene Examiners’ union.

  Another yawn.

  Urgh …

  Should’ve gone home when King did. Or at the very least, when the Tayside team finally turned up. No one could say he hadn’t showed willing.

  One of the SE team ducked out from under the tape cordon and padded across the marble on his blue-bootied feet. Stopped right in front of Logan, still wearing the full goggles-facemask-and-gloves outfit. Nodded back towards the bloodstains. You could’ve cut marmalade and sawn through jute with his accent: ‘Got some good fingerprints off the floor around where the body was.’

  ‘Body?’

  ‘Aye, body. You can tell from the blood patterns.’ He pulled down his facemask and gave Logan a lopsided smile. ‘I love blood patterns, me. Every little scarlet dot, shimmering like a ladybird, tells a story. You just have to ken how to read it.’

  Logan smiled. ‘I know a forensic soil scientist you’d love.’

  ‘Ace.’ A nod. ‘So, I’d say our victim was standing when they were hit first – there’s fine particulates on the wall and the rubber plant at head height. Then he hits the floor – more blood, but radiating outwards, a few stray hairs caught between the tiles. Some smearing. And that’s when they cut him.’

  ‘They cut him?’

  ‘Oh yeah. He’s lying on his back, right? And they have a go at his face with something. You can tell, cos it’s quite a gusher to start with, so his body’s acting like a stencil. He tries to haul himself in here, see the slug trail?’ Pointing at the drag marks. ‘Then they haul him to his feet and frogmarch him out. By then it’s more dribbling than anything, so they’ve maybe packed the wound with something? You can see the foot-scuffs in the dribbles. And it’s definitely dribble, not flobble, cos it’s come straight down with a wee splash.’